Snap Went Harley
by Noblescarlett
Summary: “I didn’t know what my intentions were at first, but I saw… potential” He paused for a moment, before a wicked grin flashed on his face. “So I thought, wouldn’t it be much more fun to snap her mind… instead of her neck” JokerXHarley Please read and review
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Finally, I've been wanting to tackle the Joker/Harley story for a very long time and now I'm nutting down and doing it. I've got fairly extensive RPG history, but this is my first Fanfic, so feedback is greatly appreciated!

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'_**In conclusion the Joker has no agenda other then to break the 'rules' of society because he feels he is disillusioned to humanity's true nature. He believes that deep in their hearts, everyone is able to be turned villainous with the correct incentive, as perhaps he considers he was. Because society changes and grows, so the Joker's personality changes and adapts along with it. It's doubtful he identifies himself now with the person he was before his transformation. He is a new breed of criminal with no interest in material goods. He is motivated not by his own needs, but considers himself a mentor to a childish society that he plans to awaken to the true mentality of the human condition. His major concern is, therefore, our well being – whatever he considers that to be. He is consumed with the need to cause endless destruction because in his disordered mind, order is an illusion and ultimately unnatural. Our knowledge of the Joker is extremely limited because of his enigma, but one thing is certain: the Joker marks a new age of crime and he will never stop, he is incapable on any level of his consciousness.'**_

The theory Harleen Quinzel presented in the final exam paper of her 5 year psychology course was revolutionary for criminal psychologists trying to scramble together some kind of disjointed profile for the Gotham City police. She was the first to argue that the Joker was not a sociopath, but that the extent of his psychosis had deepened beyond any usual textbook definition. He was _one _of a kind, appearing out of the settling euphoric glow of Harvey Dent's mob arrest fully mentally evolved. There was no slow decent into psychosis. She doubted he even remembered much of his former existence (if there had ever been one) Sometimes things don't evolve. Sometimes they just cease to be one thing and become… another. His fixation on Gotham City was already a vice. Even Harley, who tried to detach from the hum-drum of city-goings on, felt the unsettle. It was tainted with a threat all the more terrible because it was incomprehensible: there was no reference point for a mind like the Joker's. It was therefore predicable that the Joker was also a topic of great **interest**… among people who were brave enough to care to _think_ about that sort of thing. He was also a popular topic for final exam paper.

Harley was, however, the only student to obtain full marks.

"It says here you've applied for an internship at the Arkham Asylum. May I ask why?"

Harley was sitting in her Professor's office, conducting their final formal discussion over her future career plans. The answer to his question was obvious. Arkham had been the clear choice. It was at the top of every list, required an impossible enter score and beyond excellent recommendations. It was an achievement to even be in a position to apply straight out of school. That had been part of the _attraction_… It was the biggest _challenge_, but also it was the leading drive of inmate rehabilitation in the state. The doctors and nurses there were the best and they only took on an intern in exceptional circumstances. Well… Harley did strive to be exceptional, and had no patience to start her career in little white clinics and fight her way up ladders for 30 years. She was ambitious enough to set her goals higher then that. Much higher. But perhaps this was not something to admit to publicly. All doctors seemed to prize modesty…

"Developing my theories on the Joker for my final paper led me to become explicitly interested in criminal psychology. The _vigilante_ Batman seems to have inspired a whole new kind of criminal, and the motives and origins of these super villains is a field we've not even begun to explore. I want to conduct more extensive research and I feel I can do this at Arkham."

She feels she belongs with the elite.

"Harleen, I would normally advice not to apply for Arkham. It's extensively difficult to obtain a placement there to begin with and it's _not_ a place for novices. The inmates there are **no** small game… however you're an impressively dedicated student. You do have impressive results and recommendations. Also entering the facility for research grounds first is a clever way to introduce yourself into the workplace environment up there."

Harley's expression didn't alter. Her reasons for applying to enter the internship on a research basis was not because she was nervous, or because she had to _feel _her way tentatively. The fact that it could double as a transitional period was merely a bonus next to her true reasoning. Research students had access to higher level patients then career interns. Much higher and her plans required her to have that access as soon as possible. Access to one, Jonathan Crane.

"I thought so Sir. I'm hoping to spend the first two years conducting extensive research in order to write a book about this new emerging psychological persona."

Her Professor's ancient face crinkled about the eyes as his bushy white eyebrows rose.

"Very ambitious. And a very interesting topic to the psychology world at the moment. If you do well with this book Harleen, it could open a lot of doors for you."

Harley smiled, trying not to think that that should have been obvious.

"I hope so."

The elderly man considered his top student. Confident, controlled. No one had doubted her potential, not her teachers for certain. After a pause, he seemed to resign himself and rested his thin, pale hands down on his desk. His expression however, was affectionate.

"Harleen. You're good at research, you're even better at writing analytical studies. You pull this off, and you'll set yourself up for a good career but… now I understand **why** you're hesitant to involve yourself in the field of social experimentation again-"

the perfectly polite smile falters at the corners of her mouth and something unreadable instantly appears in her eyes.

"- which is a shame because it's always been where you're true talent lies. Even in the research you're planning to do for this book, if the opportunity arises for you to conduct some fieldwork of that kind … I'd advise doing it. No matter how difficult it may be. Avoiding it will only hold you back."

She is instantly repulsed at the idea of an obstacle to her goal, and becomes aware of her own thought processes, feeling for any internal barriers that may potentially have her holding herself back. The fault of the plan is more often the creator then not. She can't afford to have her sensitivities prevent her from moving forward, nor can she afford to hesitate and miss an opportunity in the future.

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When Harley left her college building, the heavy clouds that hung over Gotham City had finally given way to a downpour of hot, humid rain. The air smelt like overripe fruit and warm milk, and was heavy in the lungs. She pulled the collar of her yellow rain jacket up about her neck, and lifted up an umbrella over her head before stepping out into the weather. There was unease in the air, the kind you can sense like pressure on your spine rather than see or hear. Like religion, it made itself known enigmatically. Outwardly, the only thing she could hear was the quite _whoosh_ of the rain hitting the dull metal frames of parked cars and asphalt, and the sound of her heels on water and cement.

Suddenly a distant boom vibrated through the rain, snapping her head around and stopping her walking. In the distance, over the black of silhouetted skeleton buildings, something was lighting up the stormy skies in plumes of golden light. They swelled up from between buildings up towards the sky: directionally, an impossible task for lightning. It was far away, but clearly visible as the huge bubbles of light and detail plumed to their peak of brilliance… then faded, to be taken over by the hush of rain once again.

For a few more moments Harley stared, captivated, then snapped out of whatever trace the distant bombs had put her in. She fished her car keys out of her purse and they jingled as she slid them into the lock of her car and heard the click of the locking system disable. She'd just opened the door to slip inside when the sirens started to echo pass her, hidden in neighboring streets. Harley paused for a moment, scanning the foggy landscape for the red and blue sources of the tortured wailing, but there was nothing material in the fog. She strained her ears before realizing there was another underlying sound. It took half a second to recognize it for what it was. The distant sound of loud, _**glorifying**_**,** _thrilled_… laughter. The echo encompassed her and vibrated through her like the string of a violin before panic sparked up her spine and she hurriedly slipped into her car, throwing her umbrella in the back seat, slamming the door closed and slapping down the lock. On the street, alone in her car she suddenly felt very vulnerable. Gotham did that to you these days. It had been along time since Gotham had been secure, longer since anyone had felt confident in their supposed guarantied safety.

Harley sat, unnerved, looking around her through rain-distorted windows as she turned the key in the ignition, letting the roar of an engine restore her calm as she turned on the wipers and pulled out of the kerb. She'd heard the laughter before. On the videos the media released. It was the sound of fear and fire, and ironically her success.

Somewhere, the clown just had given a performance. And the audience was grim.

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	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: A lot of clues and information relevant to the future of this story in this chapter, so read carefully! Reviews would be wonderful!

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Night had fallen early. Driving through the rain, in the cold, with her heating on the blink and after the… _disturbance_, Harley was in a sullen mood. Even though her day had been filled with only good news the sensation that she'd recently eaten lead was unshakable. She didn't even bother to turn on the car radio in a vague attempt to lift her unexplainable lack of spirits.

Pulling up to the traffic light, where workmen were redirecting traffic down a detour, Harley became aware of a golden glow engulfing the drivers side of her car, changing the stray strands of blonde hair lying against her cheek into coppery gold. There was a wave of unsettle and exhilaration traveling through the cars parked bumper to bumper as they waited for the lady in orange to point them off onto a side road in groups of two and three. It wasn't until the traffic moved forward and her vision was cleared did Harley understand what was causing the delay, and what tonight's performance had been.

The golden glow was the flaming remains of what had once been a hospital, now a pile of rubble and blazing heat devouring it's remains. She stared with the kind of awed curiosity all citizens have to this level of destruction. Harley's eyes followed the sooty figures of firemen training arches of water into the flames that seemed invincible (even to the downpour of rain), as long as she could before she was waved on down the detour. Only when she could no longer remained numbly consumed by her sense of sight, did Harley's brain begin to absorb what she had seen, replaying the intently captured scenes over and over like favourite segments of a movie or a play. She wondered if anyone had been inside, understanding without consciously acknowledging that this meant that Mr. Reese was still alive, and the Joker has made sure the consequences were dealt. What did that say about the Gotham population? Had many attempted murder today? If they had, they'd failed and whoever was inside that building had paid the price… If she'd had someone in that hospital to protect, could she have killed another person to keep them safe?

She was tired of asking questions to which she could provide no answers and the Joker seemed relentless in making everyone ask them. He was a familiar and constant presence to them all now. Never needing contact for him to establish communication with them all. They all felt like they knew him, and knew enough to fear him.

With a quick check in her rear-view mirror to make sure her gym bag was on the back seat, Harley pulled in front of the Gotham Gymnasium and General Fitness Centre. The building was familiar: distant and disconnected from Gotham's troubles and a safe harbor for those whose thoughts pursued them like dogs. Turning off the engine, she grabbed the gym bag and dashed through the rain and in the double doors. She had about 2 hours before the place closed. More then enough time to put herself into a more productive state of mind. Changing into her usual training leotard, Harley put away her spectacles and brushed her damp hair up into a ponytail.

Harley headed out onto the floor. This time of night, it was normally just the body builders so she had the place to herself when she began her warm up. Stretching out, she hoisted herself up onto the beam, then let herself slip into her own thoughts as she elegantly transitioned her weight from her feet to her hands, balancing, her toes pointed perfectly polar north into the air. She'd done gymnastics since she was very small. Ever since watching the Olympics and expressing an interest, it was the one thing her mother seemed to think was worthwhile. And she was good at it. Before anything else… she'd been good at this. The liquid transition of movements, especially on the bars was were she'd realized that gymnastics relied almost completely on the condition of the mind. Science was required, to map out weight in relation to propulsion and mass. It was not a dance of passion. It was a dance of reason, and at the age of 8, during a competition in the middle of a double turn mid air into her finish, it had occurred to her that she was smart. She must be, she was good at this. Good at the math. Good control.

Harley's long lithe legs both moved apart and down into an air born split before twisting her body neatly side ways to the bar. Allowing her back foot to touch down again, she put some weight onto it as the right leg swung back and her body came up, leaving her balanced on one foot, with perfect leg extension. As she moved though the motions the inner warmth started to fill her ribcage. The result of this gymnastic Tai-Chi. Funny how a series of planned, ordered movements can be so soothing, so focusing.

It was gymnastic scholarships that had allowed her to partake in all her courses. Allowed her to pursue a career. With her home life so erratic and unstable, it took little imagination to see why, as a child, she'd become attracted to correlation. Her father had died when she was very small. She didn't remember him, and her mother didn't have any pictures. Or, if she did, they were never displayed. Harley didn't know much about him or what he did, only that he'd been the love of her mother's life. Angeline Quinzel hadn't been a strong woman. The loss of Harley's father had been a trauma she'd never recovered from, not even for the sake of her daughter. Harley had always been aware that Angeline's love for her husband was how her mother had defined herself. Without him she was just a husk she tried to fill with drink and easy sex. Harley had grown up emptying bottles down the sink, and pulling a blanket over her passed out mother on the couch, or rubbing her back while her mother threw up, before putting herself to bed. It was seven year old Harley who had made breakfast, got the mail, cleaned up the house and set tables. She'd been an unusually neat child, to counteract the haywire mess that was her parent. One of those sad tales where the mother is acting like a child and a child is forced to become a mother to compensate. Yet she'd never resented her mother. She'd never known it could be any other way. So focused on being a 'good girl', somehow sensing she was too young to understand how a person's eyes could be empty.

As she became older, Harley regarded her mother's lamenting heart with a mixture of awe and repulsion. In the end, she could only learn to recognize it's poison, and give it a wide, respectful, berth. Become wary of what a heart can turn you to.

Before the cancer had taken Angeline's life, she had finally fallen in love with her daughter and the parts of her father that lived on in her, even though by that stage it was too late to prevent Harley's fear of the consequences of intense feeling. Her mother's encouragement and support for Harley's gymnastics only reinforced Harley's reasoning that her math brought their family more happiness then her mother's ideals of love leading the way. After all, it was only once she'd discovered complete control of herself through the gym was she able to win her mother's attention back from the bottle.

Had her mother not taken a turn for the worse, Harley's goal would have been the Olympics. And she allowed her mother to pass away believing that it was still possible, even though by the time her mother's drawn out death had finally become complete, Harley was too old to hope to get a trainer. Even at only 22. She hadn't been ready anyway, she'd needed traumatic therapy at the time, part of what inspired her to get into Psychology.

She twisted mid air and landed her feet on the mat and hit into the finishing pose, sucking in a deep satisfying breath. The oxygen refreshed her mind and ended her meditation on her childhood. Everyone had a story, and she (more then most) was aware of how few perfectly happy childhoods there were. Her own wasn't abusive, and there had been good times as well as bad and now she was stronger mentally and emotionally then her mother had ever been. In the end her trials as a child had born her success as a young woman, ended the insecurities about who she was so that she could focus on the ambitions external to her emotional self.

Later that night at home, she would watch the Late Night News report on the Joker's attack on the hospital. The building was completely blown out, structurally destroyed. Repair or rebuilding was impossible, it would need to be demolished and funding sought out for a replacement building. She'd climb into bed and it would occur to her half way between consciousness and slumber that, even though it's a common given that it takes more to create something then to destroy it, it would be _exceedingly_ difficult to destroy something so… _**definitely**_. She wonders if this has also occurred to _him_, but slips into bliss before she can weigh up the ramifications.

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	3. Chapter 3

Authors Note:

Sorry for the long delay between the last installment and now. It's not so much that I haven't had time to write but more that I wasn't happy with the first two chapters, so they're been extensively re-written and the full story has been roughly planned and re-planned until I was happy. So now we can move forward with the story. Enjoy and don't forget to review!!

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Two days later, seated in front of the board of Directors at Arkham Asylum for her interview, Harley was composed. Her mind quiet and focused, ankles neatly folded together, projecting positive thoughts and all that, her portfolio open on the table in front of the three board members taking her application.

"These examination papers are _very_ impressive Miss Quinzel."

Commented the middle aged lady seated in the center, closing the black folder and smiling with interest at Harley, who returned her smile, even though the address 'Miss. Quinzel' always made her uneasy. Miss. Quinzel had been her mother. The vibes she's been getting from the three examiners were very mixed. The middle-aged lady was obviously impressed by Harley's potential and as a possible asset to Arkham, the elderly man with reserved brown eyes wore an unreadable expression. His body language was difficult to read and was yet to speak during the interview. The man on the left was perhaps in his fifties. He had a bald head and a mouth that drooped down at the corners in a typical attribute of a man not often pleased by much; he seemed to have taken an instant disliking to Harley.

"But flawed. It's mostly just based on speculation."

He said, not to Harley, but to the other two doctors. His voice was describable as 'smooth' to all except the more disillusioned Harley, who recognized it as more '_**sly'**_ and instantly unlikable. Through her interview he'd been nit-picking at the few minor holes in her application and her theories. With him constantly pointing out her supposed faults and the center-placed women rebutting with all her attributes Harley just kept up her smile and politely observed the crossfire. The bald doctor with the superior body language was beginning to make her indignant. She knew he was pushing her, maybe baiting her into the promise of a heated debate that he could twist into presenting as a 'display' that she was over ambitious, or couldn't handle criticism – either of which may jeopardize her interview. She pursed her lips, forcing her hands not to clench. She didn't know why this guy was determined to play bad cop but she wouldn't just bend over and take a spanking. She'd have to take the chance that that a bright young mind that challenged the authority would come across as a positive. She waited for a pause then pounced. Verbally.

"Excuse me, but speculation is all we _have_ to work with when dealing with the Joker. That's why it's so important that this research goes ahead. Not only for publication purposes, but for the chance of having something to prepare our doctors with, in case the Joker ever _**does**_ end up here at Arkham."

The bald doctor turned his attention to _her_ for the first time. He leant forwards over the table so the sunlight caught his name badge. Doctor Abel Whitman. He was a big man, but not overweight or flabby. _Bulky_. He clearly shaved his head and his skin was unnaturally dark. Fake tan perhaps. If not for the unpleasant sneer he could have been attractive in an age worn, has-been sort of way.

"That's only presuming this theory that the Joker does not fit an existing psychological profile is valid."

Harley's hackles rose. "I hear you're having a _lot_ of success with Jonathan Crane's rehabilitation."

Whitman's face flushed in unison with sudden double takes from the other two interviewers. Whitman and Harley glared at each other, both aware of the change in atmosphere. The brown-eyed doctor to the right recovered from his initial surprise and actually had the gall to chuckle as the woman exchanged her gaze alternatively between Whitman and Harley.

"You've at least done you're research." said Whitman after a tense moment.

"Jonathan Crane, in my opinion, is the first case of this new criminal mindset."

"Ah that's right," said the middle-aged doctor. Doctor Ross Hyland.

"In you're proposal you were hoping to begin your research on Crane."

"It makes sense to begin with him."

Whitman made a noise in his throat, which drew eyes back to him once again.

"You must at least agree that the theory merits more thorough study." Harley prompted.

"I agree that the theory would merit attention from professionals"

"With all due respect, Doctor Whitman, I am a professional."

He glanced at the paper in front of him

"Since last Monday."

Harley pursed her lips but said nothing. She wasn't going to argue the fact she was fresh out of school, and her old professor _had_ made her aware of a hole in her field work experience. But he had also said that it was her greatest strength so if she was lucky, he'd have mentioned so in his reference. And she didn't need to argue the point to know that it was _her_ theory, no one could steal it from her. Her paper was published.

"Thank you Miss Quinzel, we'll deliberate and call you back in a moment."

Said the elderly man, speaking for the first time in a smooth, educated voice; immediately calling the meeting to an end. They all stood and shook hands and Harley thanked each of them for their time before taking a seat outside. Arkham was very efficient, she'd give them that. They didn't waste time in deciding an applicant's fate. Interview with the direct hirers and they decided there on the spot if you were in or out.

Of course she was in.

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20 minutes later, after having her hand shaken by Ross Hyland vigorously and the congratulations was thrown back and forward, Ross offered to walk Harley through Arkham and back down to the parking lot. She accepted willingly, if only for the chance to get to know one of her new colleagues a little better.

"We already have one of the rooms we used to use for sessions being refurbished into a small office for you - course it won't be ready for a few weeks but _do_ tell me if there's any specific changes you need done or anything else you may need."

Dr. Hyland said, while the two women beamed at one another.

"Oh no, just a big desk with a comfy chair and decent storage and I'll be right at home."

"I have to say I'm very excited about you're book Miss Quinzel."

Harley laughed and pushed her glasses neatly up her nose with the tip of her finger.

"Just Harley please, Miss Quinzel was my mother."

Dr. Hyland smiled and swiped her keycard through an access point, buzzing the door open so the two women could continue their walk down the hall.

"Then I must insist you call me Ross. I'm sorry I don't have time to offer you a tour of the facilities at the moment-"

Harley interrupted her with a dismissive wave of the hand, to indicate it was no problem before Ross continued.

"- but while you're office is out of commission, I'd take this time to start your initial preparation. I'll have all the files on Jonathan Crane sent over to your house tomorrow. That way, by the time you're ready to start work you'll be able to begun sessions with him _right away_."

Even Harley was moderately surprised by this. She hadn't been expecting access to such a high level patient so easily, and certainly not right off the bat. The Scarecrow has caused Gotham a lot of grief the previous year, not someone _she'd_ give access to just anyone. Ross, seeing her expression, laughed,

"I'm not the only board member intrigued by your work Harley, so it wasn't as hard as you think to pull a few strings, especially since putting you on any other patient is really a waste of time for you and your research. Even though Jonathan Crane is classified as a top priority patient, he isn't considered to be a violent risk."

Harley raised an eyebrow, opening a second door for Ross as it buzzed loudly. She didn't need to literate how unbelievable it sounded that the Scarecrow, the one time number-one most wanted of Gotham City, wasn't considered to be violent by his doctors. Ross answered the silent query

"Oh yes, you'll find that most patients who were regarded as violent on the outside tend to mellow out here after they settle in. Course…"

They hung a left and found themselves walking through the entrance lobby, dotted with two or three visitors on couches, waiting to see mentally unfortunate family members or friends. Ross lowered her voice by several octaves and her expression became less jovial – warning Harley that she was about to share delicate or privileged information.

"I think the doctors here are more then happy for an excuse to hand Jonathan over to a new pair of hands. Jonathan was a _mentor_ and a great influence on many doctors here, back when he worked at Arkham… a lot of people held him in high esteem. Having him as a patient now is distressing and unsettling for his old friends and colleagues. You understand."

Harley nodded numbly, entertaining the taboo idea of what a horrible feeling the epiphany must have been: realizing the one you looked up to was a clinically insane psychopath. If it were her_,_ **she'd** want to delude herself for as long as possible, but you can't do that if you're forced to see proof before you in it's cell all the time… a constant and painful reminder. Displayed, like visual _poison_ to the soul. She shivered and felt the need to mentally project out some prayers of deflection, for superstitious fear that if she didn't she might also, some how, become inflicted.

"No of course."

Saying goodbye to Ross Hyland, Harley got in her car and pulled her gym back onto the front seat. Foreboding mixed with excited apprehension was an interesting sensation. The kind she needed to shake if she was going to spend the next two weeks holed up at home pouring through paperwork. In two weeks, she was going to meet Jonathan Crane… Dr. Jonathan Crane… The Scarecrow. She was aware that she was at a brink, a prelude to dipping her toes into something much bigger then her and it was thrilling.

And the bigger it was, the better prepared she would have to be.

After all, reading stories about tigers in the paper don't pack quite the same _punch_ as spotting one stalking through the blonde grass towards you…


	4. Chapter 4

Authors Note:

I'm on a roll tonight I think. The Joker is finally making an appearance next chapter! And yes to those that are wondering, the Scarecrow does have a major part to play in this story. And it has nothing to do with love triangles because I hate those. Read and review. If you like it, give it love!

Enjoy!

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Harley sat on her living room floor, legs crossed, pen and open notebook balancing on one knee, a mug of coffee in one hand as she poured through the contents of the two boxes that had been delivered to her house three days ago. Of course she hadn't opened the boxes until that morning. Harley liked to conduct her own research into a person _online_ before looking at their files. It gave her a starting point, a skeleton of her patient's life before getting into the nitty-gritty speculation. She was after all, learning about a _person_ here. And to learn about a person you had to understand where they had come from, what their lives had been like, the choices that they'd made and how they'd grown up before she could understand what went wrong.

The information from the Internet had been refined into the usual basic outline of his life. And the bones of the man she hoped to construct, in dot-point.

'_Born out of wedlock._

_Raised by his great-grandmother_

Grandmother died in his senior year

_Pursued a career in psychology – eventually specializing in the study of fear.'_

Harley paused. It seemed her and Jonathan Crane had something in common. She too, had been drawn to becoming a psychologist after the death of her parent.

'_Employed by Gotham University as Professor of Psychology._

_Fired a gun at his students during a class to prove a point _

_This results in the university firing him._

_During his time at the university he develops a hallucinogenic gas that induces deep phobias in victims.'_

Besides this note she had a clipping of a news article titled 'STUDENT TERROR AS TEACHER BRANDISHES FIREARM' stuck onto the page.

'_Adopts the Scarecrow persona for the first time and kills reagents responsible for his firing._'

This one dot point left Harley with a lot of immediate questions. All of which she scribbled down hurriedly. It seemed very odd for a man to make a leap from classroom teacher to a costumed-killer. Even if discharging a firearm in a classroom was obviously unacceptable behavior, it didn't necessarily mean he was mentally unstable at that point. You'd be surprised what enthusiasts will consider a _good idea_ at the time Harley had the insistent feeling that there were gaps in this story. It didn't make sense.

'_**why a scarecrow?'**_

she wrote her last question next to the original dot points. Of all the things he could have dressed up as, or used as a disguise… why had he chosen a scarecrow? He hadn't lived on a farm, so why would he identify with this figure? Only time might give her answers.

'_Transfers to Arkham Asylum and becomes a psychiatrist._

_Conducts fear-inducing experiments on his patients._

_Specializes in Psychopharmacology: The study of drug-induced changes in mood, sensation, thinking and behavior. Main studies are conducted for the modification of behavior and alleviation of symptoms, particularity in the treatment of mental disorders._

_Allies with criminal Ra's Al Ghul and paid crime lord Carmine Falcore for smuggling the hallucinogenic drugs into Gotham_

_Paid to declare Falcone's thugs wrongfully insane in court – preventing them form serving jail time._

_Is caught and fails psychological examination, which results in him being committed at Arkham._

_Escapes during the mass breakout._

Re-captured by Batman 4 months later.'

It seemed his murder of the university regents had opened the floodgates for corrupt behavior in Jonathan Crane. Harley had skimmed over the 'basic' notes again before she'd opened the boxes and begun sorting the contents into files, reading though each and making notes.

She'd been right in her statement to Whitman that Jonathan's rehabilitation wasn't making much progress. Jonathan had been an inmate for several months now since his recapture, yet his doctors had made little progress with him. Harley could highlight several reasons why this was probable. Firstly, being a prior doctor at Arkham, Crane probably already has history with most of his doctors. Even minor history like that can seriously undermine a chance for a patient to connect with the doctors treating him. Ross had mentioned most of the doctors felt unsettled around Crane. Being an astute student of fear he would have picked up on this, and no doubt exploited it.

Pulling out a record sheet, Harley could confirm Crane had gone though an unusual number of 'doctors.'

In the recordings she listened to, he sounded bored with the probes into his childhood and past. Harley supposed she'd be bored too if she were forced to under go therapy, when that was _her_ job. She could psychoanalyze herself anytime she wanted. Maybe if the doctor was interesting enough to allow the examination to go a little both ways…. you know, just to add some _interest_ on her part…

She paused, and jotted down a note at the corner of her page. The beginnings of an idea perhaps.

Looking out the window and acknowledging the set sun with a kind of resigned admission that she'd been at this too long, Harley set down her pen and closed her notebook. There was only so long she could throw herself into dissecting a psychiatrist who used drugs and psychological tactics to exploit the fears and phobias of his adversaries before she felt the need for some normality. Getting up from the floor and hobbling into the kitchen on her protesting legs, Harley dumped her cold coffee down the sink and flipped on the kettle with the goal of making a replacement. Picking up the remote she turned on the television and channel flipped until the News came on.

10 o'clock already? She hadn't even started dinner. Taking off her glasses, Harley pulled on her apron and took out the pasta sauce she'd cooked up yesterday. Pouring it into a pot to simmer she filled a larger pot with water and set it on the hot plate, waiting for it to boil while she leaned on the counter, watching the television.

'…_still unable to make contact with either of the ferries to know what demands the Joker has made or if there is any immediate danger to the passengers."_

Harley's heart froze for a millisecond. Since warning the people of Gotham to either _play_ or _get out_, Harley hadn't heard anything on the Joker's movements. She'd been engulfed in her own work and hadn't been watching the news or listening to the radio. She, herself, had never entertained the idea of leaving town. She wasn't going to just **leave** Arkham, not now she was exactly where she wanted to be for a start … but also there was the far less admitted idea that she didn't want to _abandon_ the Joker. She'd been here for the start of the game and like everything else she wanted to see it through to the end. She wasn't running scared. She was staying curious. He was the reason for her recent success and he wasn't really _real_ to her in the platonic sense. Like many of those that stayed, she didn't feel immediately threatened by him. One of those 'he could choose any place to blow up why would he pick my flat' type reasonings.

Harley turned up the volume on the television as it played video footage of the two ferryboats unmoving and unresponsive on the water. As the story continued and the facts slowly undressed themselves Harley found herself eating her pasta on the floor directly in front of the television; listening to the faint echoes of the same broadcast that indicated her neighbors were also currently seated, transfixed by their respective screens.

'… _the Joker's ultimatum to the two ferry boats has sparked an instant response as police desperately search to take the Joker into custody before the alleged midnight deadline. Contact is still impossible between or to either boats. The public has been advised to stay in their homes, though hundreds have gathered at the harbor to stand and hope for a miracle to divert disaster. Back to you Daniel."_

Harley's chest felt constricted and she suddenly put her bowl down on the coffee table, unable to eat. Children and citizens in one boat, criminals on the other. Make a choice, or both of them go? She checked her watch. 11.55. Five minutes until the deadline and both ferries were still in the water… intact. Those questions again… could she blow up the boat? It's easier to imagine blowing up the criminals to save the children but… still there are no answers. After all, the criminals hadn't blown up their law-abiding counterparts. She hears the sound of someone crying up stairs. The elderly couple in 14b have family on that ferry… grandchildren. Harley found herself staring at her watch as Daniel vanished and the TV displayed aerial shots of the two ferries, while Harley voiced a tentative countdown

"5…4…3…2…1… "

Harley stares, unblinking at the television. Not breathing or moving until finally… 12.01… 12.05. Nothing had happened. Everyone was alive.

Instead of relief her immediate reaction is confusion. A bluff? The Joker's never bluffed before! She's momentarily annoyed at this change in his behavioral pattern because it doesn't fit the profile of him she's already locked away as 'done and dusted' in the back of her mind. She picks up her pasta again and starts to eat.

It didn't make sense, _why_ would the Joker carry out every threat he'd made to the press, insisting on the premise that he always would, just to fall though now? Had he suddenly grown a conscious? He'd lived by the principle of _spare_ the rod and **spoil** the child with city of Gotham up until now. Nothing like that happens spontaneously. He can't just go from ruthless sincerity to a merciful poker face, there had to have been something that happened inbetween, something… between.

Suddenly she's choking and thumping her chest like a wild thing, dumping her pasta bowel back on the table, Harley hit mute then dived for her laptop and began logging onto the newspaper archives, typing in key words and scrolling through the results.

No WAY did Jonathan Crane get fired and decide to murder three people off hat. He was too controlled. Like any psychologist he was all too aware of how the mind can snap under emotion pressure. His job was everything to him yes but he was _not_ an extreme personality, everything Jonathan Crane did was composed, and planned. He'd never allow himself the option of an action he knew nothing about, which ruled out spontaneity and ruled in….

She suddenly stopped scrolling.

'MASKED GUNMAN TERRORIZES SENIOR PROM: TWO DEAD'

Prior incidents.

'Senior Prom at Reedington High ended in tragedy on Friday night when a Caucasian male armed with a shotgun appeared in the school parking lot, terrorizing the students present. The gunman is described as tall, thin and wearing what appeared to be a scarecrow mask and dark clothing. An attempt to escape the gunman by car lead to the fatal crash, which resulted in the tragic death of Sherry Squires, age 17. Bo Griggs remains in hopistal in a serious condition. Anyone with information on the identity of the gunman is urged to contact police.'

"Well blow me dead."

She double-checked her dates, but they were dead on. That was Crane's prom night. And she'd marry Whitman if that hadn't been Crane under that mask. Reading later news articles revealed that Griggs had survived, but remained completely paralyzed from his broken back, and confirmed that the gunman had never been apprehended.

So the Scarecrow identity had in fact been first adopted around the age of 18. A situation like that, a masked kid with a gun usually exhibits a young man starved of control to a point where he'd to anything to achieve some. Armed, when no one else could know who he was would have given him an _intense_ rush of power. It makes sense that when he felt powerless again, years later he reverted to what he knew had worked in the past. If he'd aimed to terrorize Griggs or Squires specifically (and they certainly seemed to have been given special attention) then he'd already exhibited violence towards those who perhaps caused him grief. Looking at Griggs' burly photo, he certainly looked like a bully. Maybe he pushed Crane too far? Failing that, maybe his Grandmother's death had hit him harder then anyone had known.

Harley browsed though obituaries but discovered his grandmother died a mere 4 days after the incident. So more questions arose.

What _had_ set Crane off that night?

Had he meant to get Griggs and Squires killed?

How had his grandmother died?

Impressed with her own detective work and enjoying the after current of her breakthrough, Harley saved her work and closed the laptop, only then realizing that the television was still on, a grainy freeze frame of the Joker's face plastered up beside the newsreader. Watching it on mute for a moment, trying to lip-read, Harley eventually turned up the volume.

'…_finally apprehended by police and taken into custo-'_

she turned the television off with finality…..

Caught… caged, outsmarted.

She was relieved, disappointed and /or indifferent…

Taking her bowl to the sink and deciding to leave the dishes for the morning, Harley padded down into her room, pulled on her pajamas and crawled into her bed, her blankets toasty thanks to her electric blanket. Best invention to man, and the only way to battle a winter chill that ran _**bone-deep**_.

She lay there, in the dark, listening to the clock tick, reasoning with herself.

The Joker, taken into custody.

Apprehended by police. _HOW???!! _ How did he allow this to happen?

Custody… pending trial. Trial meant a jury of people who'd lost family and friends to him. Trial meant electric chair or a quick prick to the arm that fucked you for life, or a rope tight, tight about his neck! How was she meant to get to him? _How_ was she meant to meet him, her star, her _protagonist _if he was dead?

Her pasta-filled stomach churned as dreams of a complete and finished book slipped _just_ out of reach.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her. Pending trial… Regarded as the worlds biggest sociopath by the ignorant, pending trial meant a psychological examination to see if he was _fit_ to stand trial… which meant _taken into_ _custody_ was really _taken to_…

_**Arkham**_


	5. Chapter 5

Authors Note:

I suspect the chapters are almost writing themselves at this point. I'm just here for fun.

I'd love to hear any ideas, critiques and feedback, so please read and review!

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The next five days were spent balancing her plans for her first session with Jonathan Crane and monitoring the news and media wavelengths as closely as she was able. This made for many situations of exchanging between typing and writing in her notepad with both radio and televisions on in the background. Fortunately the skill of multi-tasking was something Harley was more then adapt at. By the time Ross called her to let her know her office would be ready that afternoon, Harley was aware that the Joker had finally been transferred from prison to Arkham Asylum 32 hours earlier, called in to requested a tour of the high security wing and booked her first session with Crane to begin immediately after.

Opening her windows that morning revealed another frosty winter day. The tree that clawed it's way up the side of the window looked dead and brittle and her breath had clouds the instant Harley pulled herself out of bed. When faced with mornings like this, the only good start to the day was a day that started with a hot shower. She lingered in the ridiculously hot water, scrubbing her skin until it was pink and rosy and washing her hair until it was silky to the touch. She was calmly riding on the pre-day good will waves that come on a day you know it is going to be a good one. Or at least eventful. Turning off the water she was smart enough to have brought her clothes in the bathroom, so got changed and dressed in the warm. Dying her platinum blonde hair, she swept it back into a loose bun and swiftly applying a touch of blush and mascara with the flourish of expertise. Harley pulled on her new Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane uniform of a black skirt, red shirt, black tie and white lab-coat. After a brief scrutiny in the mirror, she felt a flare of rebellion that she expressed with black lipstick. She was one of a rare few that could pull it off without looking like a teenager rock-star wannabe or a Goth. In fact it was a rather becoming contrast to her fair complexion and luminous blue eyes. Setting her glasses on her nose Harley moseyed around the kitchen, packing up her laptop and papers all into boxes to be loaded into the car and installed into her new office. Cartoons and a bacon fry-up for a late breakfast sufficiently wasted time before braving the cold and taking all her stuff out to the car. Hurrying back inside for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake before finding the thickest duffel coat she owned and grabbing her keys. She was still early, but the sooner she got there the sooner she could start settling in. Extra time could be spent exploring or double checking notes.

Pulling up to the giant black iron gates and flashing her car license to the guard at the gate, Harley was surprised to feel a thrill of apprehension run up her spine as the gates opened. Now the Joker was inside, the building seemed somehow larger, and _darker_. It's shadows were longer, and it's design that had once added character, were now blatantly threatening. It was probably just the layer of white ice that made it so cinematic. She shivered, scaring herself with her imagination, then laughed at her own ridiculousness.

She parked as close as she could to the lobby entrance and, once inside, Harley picked up her new keypass from the front desk. By the time she'd finished filling out the required paperwork, Ross had come down to greet her.

"Harley, I'll help you with those boxes if you like. Nasty day to have to keep dashing in and out."

Thanking her profusely, both women made three trips back and forwards from the car to Harley's office before they were done and Ross left Harley to settle in with a promise of lunch some time in the coming week.

Closing the door Harley turned and faced her modest office space, a large oak desk, bookshelves, padded carpet, a indoor plant in the corner and a comfortable computer chair. She gave her attention to the more important heating system and was pleased as it whirred into life and started warming up the room within a few minutes. This was perfect. Setting up her laptop and unpacking the boxes took time, but she was done in roughly two hours, finally sinking into her chair and looking at the case file of Jonathan Crane lying onto of the desk. It and her laptop the only current occupants. She opened it and pulled out the black and white photograph, lifting it to her face and fingering the glossy coat of the photo. She'd looked at his photo often over the past week. She couldn't explain why, she searched the still face of Jonathan Crane because she had an intuitive feeling that there was something right in front of her nose that she wasn't seeing. Each time she looked at the photo this feeling re-appeared but no matter how hard she studied it, only Jonathan's fine features and intelligent eyes stared back, equally as blankly.

She wondered if the real-life model would have the same effect on her.

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"Harleen Quinzel?"

Harley, who'd been waiting by the security office turned to see a smiling women with sharp, disillusioned eyes. She held out her hand for Harleen to shake

"I'm Joan Li-Land."

The women was taller, with flattering hair cut into a neat bob and no makeup. Shame, because she was quite attractive. Harley, returning the friendly smile, shaking Joan's hand. She recognized a kindred spirit. This women was probably only a few years older then her, and she was one of the head doctors in the top security wing. Harley was glad to see she wasn't the only one to have high ambition young.

"Hi Joan, call me Harley, everyone does."

Joan motioned for her to walk with her down the rows of cells.

"I must admit, I was surprised you wanted to intern here at Arkham."

Harley hadn't been aware Joan Li-Land had been following her career... but then again she did know Joan was close friend with her old college professor. And in all fairness if _she_ heard of a student with new ideas and exceptional skill at her old school, she'd probably follow up on what they were up to as well. The impatient had to stick together, after all, in order to compete.

"Well, I've always had an attraction to eccentric personalities. They're more exciting, more challenging."

"More high-profile?"

Harley's smile widened; somewhat delighted Joan could see right through her. Obviously the two of them were very alike, or at least smart enough to cotton onto the other.

"You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these super criminals."

As they walked Harley had been noticing the patients in their glass-fronted cells. A fat little man scrunching up his face and unscrunching it, a nerdy looking guy rubbing his nose against the glass, fogging up his glasses, others sitting holding long conversations with themselves or unseen guests. None looked particularity dangerous but none of these patients had fire in their eyes anymore, an indication that somewhere, something was no longer working. By super criminals, she hadn't meant these. She'd meant the less common occupants, like the red-haired women watering her plants, who'd met Harley's gaze with a shrewd intelligence. She meant the ones who looked at her like it was _**she**_ who was behind the glass, on display. They weren't in captivity… not really_._ Joan stopped walking and looked at Harley closely, her expression piercing.

"I'll warn you right now, these are hard core psychotics, if your thinking about cashing in on them by writing a tell all book… think again."

Harley was still entranced by the redhead who had yet to take her poisonous green eyes off Harley, even as she coaxed an alien looking flower into bloom. Harley was only half listening to Joan when a sound that seemed profoundly misplaced snapped her out of the women's green-eyed stare.

Whistling? Harley looked around and spotted the cell the noise was coming from. Joan didn't stop her, only folded her arms and observed as Harley hesitated, then approached the glass. The inside of the cell was identical to all the others, harsh lighting that cast extreme shadows in the back corners, one plain bed, walls of stone, the thick unbreakable glass. There was a figure inside, leaning indifferently against the wall behind his bed, arms folded over his broad chest, his face and most of his body in the shadow.

He'd stopped whistling when his eyes caught the movement of her approaching the glass, where she stood, blonde hair, big blue eyes, lab coat and _long legs_. He cocked his head slightly, seemed to bore his cold black eyes into hers for a few seconds before winking and flashing her a brilliant smile, as if they'd just shared a private little _joke_.

Harley was startled and, as he burned his amused dark eyes into hers, she felt hypnotized, trapped, she couldn't… look.. _away_.

"They'd eat a novice like you for breakfast."

Joan's voice penetrated her mind and she glanced sideways at the card. _The Joker._

Harley's stomach did flip-flops as she looked back into the cell. He hadn't moved, his eyes trained on her intently. Harley quickly lowered her eyes as she was unable to prevent a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She could feel her face growing hot, so with a last look at the tall, lean figure silhouetted in shadow, she followed Joan down further on their tour.

Joan continued walking a few cells down before glancing at Harley, who still seemed a little shaken by the totally casual and, well, _normal_ appearance of the Joker. Had she just been given a performance or was he really unconcerned by his confinement? More immediately concerning was that he didn't seem insane. He seemed _civil,_ even charming. She'd been expecting… oh, she didn't know what she'd been expecting. Hypothesizing about him so long, seeing the man instead of the mind was somewhat disarming. In her head she couldn't associate her own theories with the flesh and blood and that confused her. As distance and time passed between them Harley became more aware of exactly how astute those black eyes had been. Fiercely so. They'd been in each other company for only a moment, and already she felt as if he'd masterfully established a connection with her with the simply use of a wink and a smile. Their private joke. Creepy.

Shivering, Harley was momentarily glad that it was Crane she was devoting herself to instead of the Joker.

Instinct told her to stay away from him.

Instinct said _flee_.

She'd need time to quell those instincts before she'd be ready to meet a man like the Joker again.


	6. Note from NobleScarett

Note from NobleScarlett  
Hello everyone. This is just to let all the readers know that I'm not dead and do fully intend on seeing this tale out to completion even if it take another three years. :S I've read all your wonderful reviews and some of you have had questions I'm going to take some time out to answer:

**The Scarecrow  
**Life got in the way for a while and my free time was practically non-existent over the past year but I have more time now so I shall get back into writing shortly! :)

**Count Nightmare  
**Yes I really do not like Joker/Harley/Scarecrow triangles either (its not canon and makes no sense) but the similarities between Jonathan and Harley were too overwhelming for me to ignore. Although he's not a major character, I have some very important things to reveal about the connection between these two so you have that to look forwards to. He has a very interesting role to play.  
Also, I had not planned to bring in Harvey Dent because I cant see where to fit him into the time frame I'm covering. He's at large while Harley is working at Arkham and this story will cover only up to Harley becoming HarleyQuinn and her escape with the Joker.

**Crimson Gold  
**Sort of yes and sort of no. You'll have to wait and see! XP

x NS


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